An artist notices as I drift solemnly,
parting the autumn leaves
that sit like schoolchildren
upon the mirror of the sky.
As his brush paints my cheek a pale hue
I wonder if his strokes
will properly capture
my vulnerability
as I find myself stray
from the world that has dejected me.
He details the decaying forest
that falls like a tapestry
behind the image
of my heartbreak.
Will this lonesome painter
capture the forgotten pieces
that a cruel man
once stole from me?
For the man with the canvas
cannot possibly convey
with his useless pigments
what I feel writhing in my chest.
I watch the way his fingers
wrap around a worn paintbrush
delicately, and dot crimson
on the water that carries me,
setting modest fires
to Adam’s ale,
adding sin to the purity
upon which I rest
to possibly create an image that could be
worth pondering.
He cannot see
how, when I gaze into the treetops above me,
squinting hard,
turning leaves into marble
the foliage becomes hazel eyes
falling in and out of love with me
with shocking ease.
Believers tell me
there are unimaginable
colors that exist in Heaven,
but I know that the only hues
that I will encounter
in the land of God
are the shades of past
lovers’ eyes,
for I have gone blind
to any other beauty.
Hazel green
is all I can see.
All I can imagine.
All I can grasp.
I remember when my tears pooled around me,
and I remember how he remained on solid ground,
unwavering.
The lashes that held
his autumn eyes
remained dry.
Yet, here I am, floating
into the brook,
in an attempt to feel closer to the moment
where my eyes were as wet as the water below me,
wallowing in broken memories
as a painter skillfully
captures the scene
of a lovely girl on a canoe
splitting the water
and the fallen decay.